


Rainbow Shades

by justdk



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Pride, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-08-02 05:40:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16299173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justdk/pseuds/justdk
Summary: Kavinsky and Prokopenko go to Pride





	Rainbow Shades

**Author's Note:**

> This is 100% inspired by my experiences at Pride (minus the making lol). I was there yesterday and saw this super skinny tattooed guy with shades and a hat and thought "could be K" so here we are :D

Kavinsky’s rail thin and corpse pale, sticking out in this crowd of tanned and brown bodies. The black tattoos marking his back, sides, chest, neck, arms, and hands somewhat make up for his pallor and he’s had more than a few guys offer compliments, and some unasked for touches. On a normal day none of them would have had the nerve but today’s not normal. It’s wonderful.

The air smells like fried foods, weed, and beer. A couple spaces over two girls blow bubbles and laugh while their moms watch them, sharing a lemonade cocktail and an occasional kiss. The group of college kids comes back from dancing and collapses on the blanket in front of him. The girls wear their hair down, trim bellies on display below the hem of their crop tops. The boys are shirtless and sweaty. They’re all talking loud and laughing, only stopping long enough to drink water before they’re off again.

“Nice shades!” A guy calls out to him and Kavinsky nods, smiling back lazily. The shades were Proko’s idea – the same style as his favorite pair but instead of white plastic they’re striped with rainbow colors. They match the elastic band of his boxers, which are visible above the low slouch of his shorts. For the final touch he let Proko buy him a fuckboy hat, black with huge gold letters spelling out the word GAY. It’s a little much but Proko had said a lot of acronyms at him about living life in the moment so here he was, decked out and sitting on their rainbow blanket, waiting for Proko to return with drinks.

Music from the stage drifts up the hill. Some guy is rapping about being young and doing stupid shit. Kavinsky can relate. He pulls out his pack of cigarettes and selects one of the hand rolled joints. No one around him seems to mind when he lights up, blowing smoke away from the family with the kids. It’s not legal but, happily, he hasn’t seen enough police presence to be a problem. And hell, even the cops working the event look happy to be on the job, posing to take pictures with rainbow clad attendees. He gets out his flask and takes a few swallows. The breeze ripples through the grass, cooling his skin enough to raise goosebumps. It’s nice.

Proko finally returns, two tall cocktails in hand. He’s wearing tight, white shorts that are barely covering his goods and a new addition – a black leather harness strapped over his chest.

Kavinsky raises an eyebrow. “I send you to get drinks and you come back sporting some BDSM shit?”

Proko shrugs and smiles, completely and utterly unbothered. “When in Rome,” he says and hands Kavinsky his drink. “Besides, it looks good.”

It _does_ look good, especially against Proko’s pale skin and the purple and red bruising from bite marks and hickeys. _Mine_ the marks say. Kavinsky admires Proko with a smug look on his face.

“C’mere.” Kavinsky pulls Proko onto his lap and kisses him, one hand cupped around the back of Proko’s head, fingers running through the short hair of his undercut. Proko kisses back, tasting like lemonade and vodka, sweet and sour at the same time. It’s good; slower, nicer, more gentle than usual, both of them being careful not to spill their drinks or mortally offend the parents of the nearby children.

“K…” Proko breaks away to steal a breath, his cheeks flushed dark pink, his voice hoarse. “You’re making this _hard_ for me.” He glances down and Kavinsky follows his gaze to the skintight white shorts. Proko shifts on his lap and Kavinsky nearly groans.

“Why are you so hot?” Kavinsky mumbles, nuzzling the side of Proko’s neck before dipping his head down to bite at the metal circle hanging at the bottom of the harness.

“You have only yourself to blame,” Proko says cheekily before executing a covert move that lands him on his stomach without drawing any attention to his junk. Kavinsky smacks his ass for being a tease and laughs when Proko lets slip a needy moan. Proko gives him the finger and a burning _to be continued_ stare.

But for the moment sex can wait. They lounge on the blanket, sipping their drinks, listening to the music, and watching people stream by. There are people from every walk of life and every orientation, most of them decked out in Pride gear, some of them wearing flags like capes. A trio of college kids run by, their faces and arms and torsos covered in glitter. Glitter, Kavinsky notices, is a big thing. Grown men sport glitter beards, topless people of all genders have it plastered over their chests. Proko’s not the only one in a harness and booty shorts, either. Everywhere he looks it’s a brightly colored sea of humanity coming together for a weekend of being out and being themselves. It’s a world away from his high school days.

Later they migrate to the food stalls and grab greasy pizza and wander by all the booths. They end up with pockets full of condoms and candy, stickers and flyers. Proko lets all the vendors plaster stickers and temporary tattoos on his torso. He accepts koosies and bags, enters raffles, spins wheels, looking delighted with everything. Kavinsky waits patiently while Proko gets a rainbow flag painted on his cheek by an older church lady; she invites them to a service and reminds them to wave at her during the parade. They stop and get their picture taken at a corporate display for one of their favorite TV channels. The man taking their picture hands them a Polaroid copy and Proko clutches it like it’s a golden ticket.

Once the sun goes down and the families pack up, the remaining attendees cluster around the stage for the evening’s performances. Proko pulls Kavinsky into the throng of dancers, until they’re packed in tight surrounded by bodies and glowsticks, the bass beating in their chests, feet bouncing on the dance floor. Skin brushes against skin and Kavinsky draws Proko to him, his heart thudding in time with the music as Proko dances and grinds against him. It feels like an ecstatic neon rainbow dream. His hands travel across Proko’s chest, down to his stomach and hips, skimming the bare skin of his thighs. He knows they’re not the only couple dancing like this, moving like this, but he doesn’t care about anyone else, just Proko. His kisses the back of Proko’s neck, mouths at his shoulder, biting lightly at the leather strap and inhaling the heady scent of Proko.

It’s too loud to speak but when Proko turns in his arms and looks at him with dark, hungry eyes Kavinsky understands him without a word needing to be spoken. They stand on the dance floor, holding each other close, and kiss while the party rages on. The night is just beginning and with every brush of Proko’s lips, every touch of his hands, Kavinsky thinks, gratefully, _we’re alive we’re alive we’re alive._

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr @dkafterdak


End file.
